The Deadly Art of Napping

In which the Elegant Bastard argues in favor of limited warfare and offers instruction in the use of appropriate weapons.

I am never at my best when I am under attack.

To a certain extent, these repeated assaults are my own fault, the outcome of my unfortunate tendency to stray without purpose or protection into the larger world. One moment I am safely involved in determining whether this will be a whole wheat or a multi-grain morning. I decide, I toast, and I butter. I then settle into the sunlight and my favorite chair. I am ready to chew peacefully. I turn on the radio…

And suddenly, I am being told that assorted biker-persons have taken to assaulting large sports utility vehicles, that Suzanne Sommers wants the world to know that she and her husband have sex twice a day, that a television network somewhere is promising to provide its viewers with hungrier zombies.

When I find myself wondering if zombies eat toast, I know I have been wounded.

I recover and a little while later, I try again. Friends have arrived. The beans have been properly ground and their rich scent fills the room. We talk about Alice Monroe, the weather in Barcelona and the price of organic asparagus. Someone turns on the television…

And Boehner’s blaming Obama and Obama’s blaming Boehner. The Sochi Olympic flame has gone out four times in two days. Hannah Montana has been murdered; the self-proclaimed killer: Miley Cyrus. Malala wants to be Prime Minister of Pakistan; Beyonce has a new perfume,

I begin to slip over the edge. I lose my grip on the narrative, it fractures into fragments and brand new headlines start to scream: Suzanne Sommers Denies She Had Sex with Olympic Torch; Miley Cyrus Blames Sochi for Boehner: Malala Launches Four New Fragrances; Beyonce Wins in Pakistan; Obama Charged in Hannah Zombie Assault.

I could, were I more careful, avoid this chaotic state of mind. I could simply discipline myself to spend as much time as possible focused on the immediate here and now. I could rush to the rescue of colleagues in need of caffeine, or spend a fruitful hour selecting tomatoes, or unleash a wave of scrubbing bubbles upon the kitchen counter for no reason other than, like Everest, it’s there. And surely somewhere there are essays to mark? But just as I push myself to my feet and stride off to find writers in need of correction, a newspaper is pushed through the mail slot and there, staring up at me from the floor, is the most recent news about the Dennis Rodman – Kim Jong Un bromance … and something in my brain goes TILT.

Now everything I see and smell and hear offends me: my breakfast cereal snaps feebly and it crackles not at all; the pigeons gathering nearby are clearly engaged in a conspiracy; there are far too many people wearing pink who shouldn’t; I discover I live in a city where no matter which way I bike, the wind is in my face; my baguette turns stale in protest; suicidal moths find a window I left open; I swear at the annoying rain but it falls anyway.

Do I flee, gibbering and groaning? Do I stumble off in search of drink or drugs or dark, dark closets? I do not. No, not I, for I am made of stronger stuff. I do what I have learned to do before when all that’s sane seems ready to betray me. I declare war on the world.

What’s that, Dear Reader? You did not know we were allowed to declare war on an individual and ad hoc basis? But of course we are. I see it as a basic human right, and as something we have always done very well. So by all means, wage away. You simply need to find the most effective means of doing so.

I nap.

And before you scoff, let me assure you that the very best authorities endorse my chosen means of engagement. Consider the purpose of a just war (and all my wars are just!)  It seeks to deny an actual or potential enemy the ability to inflict harm. To accomplish this I must understand the nature and motive of the enemy and strike it at its weakest point. I must also attempt to protect myself from unnecessary risk or catastrophic costs. This requires the efficient movement of all available forces as well as the careful observation of rituals and traditions to keep morale at the highest possible levels until victory is finally achieved. It is to these ends that I have developed the Deadly Art of Napping.

My enemy (and yours, Dear Reader) is the mindless and ceaseless barrage of useless “infotainment” launched at us by the barking hordes some call the media.  As massive as this foe might seem, it is vulnerable at one key point: the moment it enters our homes, our private worlds. It is here that our horizontal hostility may – and must – manifest itself!

Let’s review some basic rules. Combat Napping cannot be done on a bed, in pajamas or in the dark. It must not be subtle or easily confused with sleep. Sleep is submission; only naps have teeth. My enemy must know it has been bitten.  I nap fully dressed on the living room couch.

I commence hostilities in the late afternoon or very early evening, precisely when assembled media forces begin to launch their heaviest weapons, their nightly news programs. Like any good soldier, I have gathered reliable intelligence (I love Google) and I know exactly when the first incoming salvos may be expected. In preparation, I turn on the television, set it to mute and scroll through the sub-titling options available before finally selecting something that looks like it could be the national language of Mars. I spend a few delightful moments watching Woolf Blitzer jabber soundlessly, nonsensically and – dare I say it – desperately while I grin (evilly). Ah, but then I remember that this is war and I take up my position.

I open the curtains and the window. I sit down, lay back and position my head upon two plumped pillows, for while I acknowledge that war is hell, I am not prepared to have it be uncomfortable. My feet point east and the back of my head points west, thereby ensuring that the setting sun does not enter the fray as a CNN or BBC agent provocateur. I pick up the novel of my choice – an oh-so subtle insult, no? – open it and rest it on my chest. I check for rations and notice that allied forces have thoughtfully contributed some wine, a few olives, a bit of cheese and a sleepy kitten.  I move my reading glasses down my nose, I breathe deeply and I close my eyes.

The battle is joined.

I know it is intense. I know that just over my right shoulder, the legions of prattle and tattle are demanding my attention. They urge me to regard with shock and awe the news of the great world’s turning. They may offer me panoramic views of floods and fires and fist pumping mobs or close-ups of the tearful, the terrified and the outraged. Whatever!  I am unmoved. I enter my mind, scroll down through the list of prepared dreams, select one and press Play.

They turn to new tactics: not tragedy, but scandal. If killings do not engage me, then what about inappropriate donations, unfortunate copulations, unhealthy inhalations, or even just weird things done with tongues. But in my napping state – somewhere  just below consciousness –  offerings like these cannot arouse me. Yes, I could surface. Of course I could stretch and twist and at least see. But doing so would disturb the kitten on my chest, and that would be cruel. I am never cruel.

We enter the final stage of the conflict. Here come the “Cute”: the chubby baby pandas, and the clumsy puppies, and the strangely dressed cats, and the funny videos of people falling in or out of places and the interview with yet another celebrity who wants to work for third world peace, albeit only on a New York stage. I am invited to please, please, please laugh and cry and be moved.

But I am unmoved. I sense their weakness; their force is dulled and their edge is blunted. Here, safe on home ground, I launch my most powerful weapon. I like to think that at the moment of detonation, three anchor persons, each equipped with at least two of the Big Teeth-Big Hair-Big Smile trinity are gazing out on what they believe is an attentive and adoring world. I imagine them asking each other questions and then telling each other how wonderful the questions were. I almost hear them telling me to wait while they switch to their correspondent who is “LIVE” in Washington and ready to tell me what the president is doing in Wyoming.

And then I snore.

In The Art of War, Sun Tzu refers to the use of weapons in Chapter Twelve, “The Attack by Fire”. A snore is admittedly not combustible, but well timed and well-delivered, one snore can achieve an ironic force  measureable only in megatons.  (And for the record, those who have heard me snore are quite unanimous in preferring immolation to being forced to attend a repeat performance.)

Having snored, I wake, and look around. My war is done. I have demonstrated the truth of one of Tzu’s most critical pieces of advice. “Good warriors take their stand on ground where they cannot lose.” Damn right, Sun, ol’ Buddy! It’s my room, my remote, my couch, my nap, my snore. I win.

I restore my television to its normal settings. The network puppets and my imaginary trinity are all gone, replaced by men with bad hair and plaid jackets telling me what to do when I’m hurt in a car or have stolen jewellery to sell. I go to the window and gaze out over my city. Things seem calm. Order – or its semblance – appears to have been restored. The pigeons even seem to be apologizing.

We cannot write the whole script. But we can always write a little, and improvise an occasional ad lib when the dialogue gets dull. As for those times when the chattering classes seem on the verge of pushing us over the edge, well, that’s when we soldier up and bring out the heavy artillery. We turn our backs and execute an elegant nap, snoring away our foes and reducing them instantly to nothing more than ludicrous mime and impotent fury.

It is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. We shall have turkey and football, both excellent precursors to naps. I have already claimed the couch. And tomorrow we shall have our Prime Minister’s Speech from the Throne. Given his recent history, I am anticipating the sale of at least one – and perhaps two – provinces. Subsequent couch access will apparently be determined by lottery. I have my ticket..

 As is the norm, our outrage has a short shadow, even when it should remain alive. Today for some reason I remembered a young man killed recently by police. I wrote about it at the time. The piece is here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6s

 

 

 

 

On Justin Trudeau and the Demon Weed (Oh My!)

In which the Elegant Bastard examines the drug of choice for each of several Canadian political leaders.

I like to think that I have a real appreciation of both satire and irony. I love a good joke. I adore puns and I chuckle quietly for the rest of the day after hearing a good one. But never, ever, ever until now – for all my love of humour – have I been able to begin my day rolling on the floor laughing thanks to the morning news.

It all started with the seismic bulletin that Justin Trudeau, leader of Canada’s Liberal Party and son of a former Prime Minister, had smoked – the horror – marijuana – Out, damned spot! Out I say – five or six times – Oh keep him away from the children! – in his lifetime – Bless me Father… – including once in his own home – Barricade it! – when a friend – Satan? Where are you Satan? – passed him a – Get thee behind me – joint.

No less a moral leader than Canada’s Minister of Justice, Conservative Peter MacKay (who has always reminded me of Elmer Fudd) denounced Mr. Trudeau’s admission as evidence of a “profound lack of judgment”.  And since Mr. MacKay is the politician who famously spent $20,000 of taxpayer funds on 1) a trip to the Grey Cup, 2) a trip to a seafood show and 3) a trip back home from his remote vacation spot via a military helicopter, we have to admit that he is an acknowledged expert on profound errors – and, of course, on a different kind of “tripping” than the one apparently experienced by Mr. Trudeau!.

Canada’s Prime Minister, Stephen Harper – who always manages to look as if he is trying to disappear up one or more of his own orifices – clearly has no patience with even a hint “reefer madness”[i]. He displayed his normal distaste for anything he can’t find looking back at him in his morning mirror by sneering that Mr. Trudeau’s words “speak for themselves”. (That’s what other people’s words do, Mr. Harper, and you should try it someday!)

That Mr. Harper would respond with scorn is no particular surprise. He is adept at contempt, his most recent targets being the global environment, all those opposed to him selling the country to China and that inconvenient Canadian thing called a parliament.  He, too, is no stranger to questionable judgment, having raised con artists Mike Duffy and Pamela Wallin to Canada’s senate before icing that particular cake with the appointment of Patrick Brazeau, a recent addition who has since been charged with sexual assault. And given that his philosophical  “bros” include Conservative Toronto city counsellor, Doug Ford (linked in the media to drug dealing) and the Conservative mayor of Toronto , Rob Ford, reportedly a “crack head”, Mr. Harper might want to stay as far away as possible from discussions of “judgment”.

Really, the poor man! Imagine the stresses of leadership. In fact, anyone who looks like Mr. Harper does in this picture (http://www.pixdesk.ca/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/Stephen-Harper-Cowboy-Outfit-Stampede.jpg) might want to consider trying a little judicious cannabis use. (Take two tokes and call us in the morning.) He might even want to consider making the whole Tory party 420 friendly; Ottawa would at least be a happier place to work.

The Conservative fear of Mr. Trudeau and their subsequent efforts to belittle him have come dangerously close to making them a national joke. They started by flaunting a picture of him sporting a scruffy hippy-ish moustache, and then learned it was a “Movember” effort. Next came the PR disaster rising out of their attempt to portray him as preying on charities for gain, only to have the nation discover that the complainants originated with Conservative party hacks. I am now waiting for them to re-spin Trudeau’s boxing match with Brazeau under the headline “Trudeau Seen Assaulting Aboriginal Leader”.   They will see the marijuana news, whatever its source, the same way dogs see bones or other dogs and will react with about as much finesse. And by doing so, they will once again demonstrate how far away from the Canadian main stream they have drifted.

I grew up in the same era as many of Harper’s cabinet, caucus and cronies. As I see him sniff disdainfully at Mr. Trudeau’s actions, my mind wanders back to my university days. Essentially we had those who did a lot of weed, those who did some, those who did a little, and those who drove to Quebec every Friday morning to get the “BIG” bottles of beer.  Among our favorite pastimes was heading to the pub where we would order rounds of draft and – as a macho rite of passage – steal the emptied glasses. (The pub knew, pretended it didn’t, and factored the cost into the drink prices.) And before Tory apologists start going on about weed being illegal and booze being nothing more than good ol’ boy Friday Night stress relief, the drinking age was then twenty-one. Sadly, we were all criminals.

As time went on, our preferences changed and mild political stereotypes emerged. The NDP crowd – loud and hairy – stayed with beer out of what they called “solidarity” – with whom or what was never clear. The Liberals abandoned  the ubiquitous Mateus Rose and Blue Nun and gravitated towards slightly better wines; they were urban cool, you see, and Beaujolais went well with polo shirts and boot cut jeans. The Tories headed for the scotch bar as soon as they could afford both it and the dark blue three-piece.

Weed, grass, Mary Jane, Ganja, dope, happy herb – whatever it was called – receded gradually into our pasts, emerging from time to time when the children were away and the time seemed right for a discrete after dinner giggle! (That’s right, Dear Reader – exactly what Mr. Trudeau and his party did in the privacy of his home and not, as Toronto’s current mayor prefers, on camera and in the middle of Main Street.)

Interestingly, as I look back on what Mr. Harper would regard as these misspent moments of my youth, I realize that I “toked” with or observed the toking antics of a boisterous crowd that now includes three CEO’s, several respected artists, an ambassador, two philanthropists, dozens of successful legal and medical professionals and – my favorite –one current member of Canada’s Conservative “inner” circle. Many apparently still indulge, and with about the same frequency as Mr. Trudeau.

In short, however we may all feel about decriminalization and/or legalization or marijuana, we are unlikely to get our political shorts in a knot because Mr. Trudeau has occasionally and privately “passed the dutchie”, even if he did do so from the left hand side. We are much more likely to come down hard on those who speed, evade child support, drive while over the limit,  scam their insurance companies, or pour themselves a third martini on an empty stomach,  real social crimes that can have consequences for others  and which occur – according to some – more often than pot smoking.

As a teacher, I strongly oppose the use of marijuana by all who are under the (admittedly arbitrary) age of eighteen. I also oppose with equal fervor their use of cigarettes, alcohol without a parent present, Red Bull, French fries, tanning salons and diet pills. Since several of these items are legal, it should be obvious that my feelings have to do with healthy minds and bodies, not some fuzzy laws the courts keep telling us are not valid. I support decriminalization and have not made up my mind regarding legalization but I do lean towards it.

Therefore, when it comes to political decision making, Mr. Harper, you need to understand that when I enter the voting booth the next time, I will not be wondering if Mr. Trudeau is “one toke over the line” with Sweet Mary. I will be  thinking of the damage you have done to our international reputation, your use of public funds to purchase thinly veiled political ads extolling the virtues of notoriously unsuccessful job training initiatives, your mockery (and disembowelling) of environmental protections, your contemptuous attitude towards parliament, your little-boys-wanting-big-toys love of obscenely priced fighter jets, your adoption of a Tea Party “Say anything!” approach to campaigning and most of all, your unrestrained addiction to the Tar Sands. I am sometimes surprised you aren’t found crawling towards them with a straw.

If I do vote for Mr. Trudeau – and I may – it will be because I find his candor, his energy, his cooperative work ethic and his thinking out loud to be a refreshing change from your anally retentive and secretive micro-managing. Grey flannel was never a personality style, Mr. Harper, until you made it so. And it will be because if anything really important is going to pot, it is this country under your rule.

Power is a far more dangerous drug that marijuana ever was, Mr. Harper, and I am tired of your addiction.



[i]  “Reefer Madness” and “Assassin of Youth” are two mid-1930’s propaganda films that “document” the dangers of marijuana. They are masterpieces of accidental humour and are easily available.

The Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases, Part 3

In which the Elegant Bastard explains the power to be found in the appropriate use of words like “Um” and “Ah” and “Er”.  Neat, Eh?

What began as a simple question – How many English words are there? – ended up taking me the better part of a day to determine and the outcome was at best ambiguous. Answers ranged from about 150,000 to just over one million, depending upon what constitutes a word, whether compound words and multiple meanings count multiple times and whether or not words invented by acknowledged geeks – skeuomorphism? – needed to be considered at all.

I also discovered that an absolute answer, while no doubt fascinating, would be irrelevant to what appears to be the primary function of language today – the confusing of others. The Empire of Babel, Dear Reader, has now spanned the entire globe. And the very least we now have pyschobabble, ecobabble, econobabble, edubabble, sociobabble, obamababble, boehnerbabble and baby babble, the latter being the only variant ever evolves  in to something making sense.

It wasn’t always this way. One can easily imagine a far distant pre-word era when woofs and grunts of various lengths and tonal variations were enough to get around. Given that career choice was limited to being predator or prey, resumes and interviews were pretty much non-existent and therefore the ability to tell articulate lies remained an undiscovered art.

There then followed an age of few words that all had very precise meanings. Life was just as violent as before but social relationships had emerged and caves needed decorating. Even with these advancements,  middle and upper-class cavepersons probably managed to get by with less than a dozen; “eat”, “drink”, “mate”, “fire” and “run like hell” come immediately to mind. At this point in human history, “eat” and “drink” were likely interrogative, “mate” and “fire” imperative and “run like hell” communicated by mime.

The development of urban culture, competing civilizations and effective antacids expanded the number of necessary words exponentially. Now we had thousands of pasta varieties and even more ways of killing people. The emergence of conversation added the need for sophisticated slang vocabularies and some of the more popular body parts acquired hundreds of words dedicated solely to them. The birth of government required elaborate words that meant very little while the development of political correctness spawned words that meant nothing at all. “Run like hell” has remained pretty much what it always was. However, the number of things from which one needs to run like hell has grown to include plague infected squirrels, reality shows, Russian presidents and in much of North America, the mayor.

(“Run like hell” no longer necessarily means the sweat provoking stampede over large tracts of ground while screaming. It can now be achieved by drawing the curtains, turning off the phone and conducting extensive research into European vodka or South American flora.)

However, none of these uses of language answers our species’ primary need: differentiation. How in this enormous and teeming world can we ever make ourselves special?  Some do this by creating esoteric and deliberately abstruse vocabularies that use language to impede or prevent understanding. In this way, a teacher’s complaint that he or she had to spend the weekend making up a test translates into two days spent creating a differentiated and criterion referenced summative assessment tool that serves as a gateway indicator. Special, no?

Interestingly, some of the original woofs and grunts have remained with us and, surprisingly, they can convey meaning just as and sometimes more effectively than their more complex progeny. In today’s edition of “The Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary”, I attempt to provide an exhaustive list of these very short exclamations that function primarily as emoticons or hesitation devices. Again, I ask for no reward other than your promise, Dear Reader, to use them wisely, widely and primarily with other people.

Ah: Expressed in a short, sharp fashion, the word means “Eureka!”  or “I understand!” or “I accuse!” Traditionalists would insist that upon uttering this exclamation, one should leap from one’s bath and run naked through the streets, preferably somewhere in Greece. Less doctrinaire logophiles will permit the substitution of enthusiastic fist pumping or finger pointing.

Ah(2): Expressed in long, drawn out fashion and accompanied by an elegant  finger placed lightly upon the chin, the word essentially means that the utterer has no idea what is going on but would die rather than admit it. The removal of any clothing in this situation would be an attempt to distract the listener’s attention.

Arg: Sometimes pronounced “Erg”, this exclamation expresses anger or pain. At its loudest, it means that special and intense combination of pain and anger experienced by someone applying a hammer vigorously to the thumb, Canadians trying to understand what’s wrong with Justin Bieber  or anyone using Windows 8.

Aw: Used alone, drawn out and moving in pitch from high to low, it is the appropriate response to the cute actions of other people`s pets and children. Used as a short sharp outburst followed by “Damn” or “Crap”, it refers to the actions of one`s own pets and children.

Eh(1): A Canadian expression and likely genetic in origin, it’s use at the end of any sentence expresses the speaker’s confident assumption that the listener will agree with whatever has just been said, as in “Nice day, eh?” Used properly, it also means that the speaker can name four provincial capitals and sing most of the national anthem.

Eh(2): Used on its own, it replaces “Pardon me” for those who are syllabically challenged. The speaker is able to name three provinces and hum the opening line of the anthem.

Eh(3) Its repeated use in a short period of time suggests that the speaker may know his own name but should likely not be asked to hum anything.

Er: This exclamation suggests some degree of moral anxiety or confusion. (For real confusion, see Ah(2)) Uttered as a response to your question as to whether or not an article of clothing makes you look fat, you may safely assume that the article in question does not make you look thin and the persons responding are worried they might hurt you.

Er(2): If pronounced “errrrrr” in the same context, then you are enormous and the persons responding are  worried that you will hurt them.

Ew: Used as a brief and unemotional single syllable, it suggests that your listener is mildly offended or seriously bored by whatever you have just said. It may be followed by a request that you perform some task requiring you to leave the room and/or the country.

Ew(2): Lengthened to a two-syllable sound with the stress upon the first syllable and pronounced “eee – uuu”, it refers to dogs with no shame, living organisms with more than four legs, or anything with polka dots.

Ick, Icky, Yuck, Yucky: These are used to refer to substances (or situations) that are unpleasant, especially to touch or taste. Of more importance is the fact that they are mostly used by those who see themselves as “cute”. As they will also use expressions like “itsy-bitsy” or “teenie-weenie”, they should not be left unsupervised near pre-literate children.

Oh:  Used briefly, it acknowledges an understanding of something previously unknown. As such, it is often followed by “Thanks”, “Really” or “Hell”.

Oh(2): Extended, as in “Ohhhhh”, it suggests a profound and usually unwelcome new understanding. There will rarely be thanks and “Hell” will be replaced by much stronger terms.

O: This reverential form of address should be used when conversing with any divine being that is in the same room as you and powerful enough to cause inconvenience.

Umm: The speaker is making a choice, usually between two very pleasant options. Would you prefer to sample the coconut gelato or the green apple? Would the world be a better place if all of Antony Weiner disappeared forever or just the bits he flaunts?

Uh: Said briefly or drawn out, it means that the speaker is watching whatever you are doing and is hoping that you come with an “off” switch that can be accessed before it’s too late.

As always, Dear Reader, I hope you have found our time together useful. Again I would like to stress that I will accept no material reward for my efforts. However, those who want to express their gratitude in an appropriate fashion may do so by signing my petition demanding that anyone using the word “awesome” be forced to watch televised fishing programs every day for a year.

As always, feel free to “like”, “share”, “tweet”, or comment.

 

Of Rob Ford and his Tribe of Little Men

In Which the Elegant Bastard Determines that Size is Not Everything!

Despite my status as the oldest (only) male in my family, I have made it a point to impose few rules regarding the behavior of others. True, this has as much to do with the fact  my family regards rules as bulls do red flags, ants a picnic and televangelists a dollar than it does with any notion of “live and let live”. Still, I have on occasion drawn my own lines in the sand, circled my wagons (difficult as I have only one) and stood with my back to my wall.

The issue is simple: the naming of descendants.

People being people, the need to name babies comes along fairly regularly. I am rarely asked my opinion regarding whether or not new off-spring will be sprung off. Therefore, given that I will be required to share with these new arrivals everything from a last name to the scandalously small amount of dark meat on a turkey to post-mortem unspent money, I claim and defend my right to exercise certain naming rights.

My rule is this: under no circumstances will any child whose diapers I might change, buy or stand within olfactory range of be named Genghis. Attila is also off limits, as are Napoleon, Charlemagne, Tamerlane and Thutmose. I do not jest! Let those with expectations of beneficiary status take warning – I ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie here. (I will also not allow the name Dixie.)

My intransigence has nothing to do with iambic or alliterative weirdness, although none of these first names would go well with Smith, Ali, Singh or Li. It simply acknowledges the fact that children named after the great military heroes and butchers of the past rarely go on to great and glorious lives in the present.

Allow me to offer two final proofs of the above. The first is self evident. Have you ever met a cute little sprite with blond curls, a pink dress and a lollipop whose parents had named her Boadicea? Of course not! Add to that fact the following:  Toronto, the Big Little city on the shores of the Big Little lake is experiencing some fundamental and profound pain. To many, it has gone from wannabe World Class City to Local Joke, even as its downtown towers multiply and grow taller. (Our city planners seem to have decided if they can’t have the biggest they’ll at least have the most!)

The reason?  In 1969, a male child was born and carelessly named. Here follows a tiny bit of Scottish history.

In the early 1300’s, a man by the name of Robert the Bruce, born of a powerful mother and an obedient father, spent much of his early life joining whatever army happened to be winning at the time. He ended up being both King of Scotland and a major figure in that nation’s roster of heroes. Legends abound, not the least of which was one cackled often by my grandmother, who delighted in telling me that Scotland’s greatest king was famous for gnawing on the bones of those he slaughtered, something that I never doubted given my own early experiences with Scottish cuisine. Still, while this might explain my attitude towards haggis and oatmeal, how does it relate to Toronto’s recent history?

Because, Dear Reader, our large and decidedly imperfect mayor is named Robert Bruce Ford. The poor wee mite never had a chance.

A large group of over-weight men are outside trying to determine what exactly one does with a football other than bounce it noisily and repeatedly off the pavement and each other. Forgive me while I go and make a suggestion.

You shake your head at “wee”, I know, but size is not merely to be measured in vertical achievement, horizontal displacement and in the case of Wee Robbie, tonnage. The breadth, height and length of things may interest engineers, cooks and the occasional pervert but those of us in search of Truth know she will not be quantified so easily. And so we recognize that ‘wee” here refers to the inner Robbie, the one we have observed wolfing down KFC, giving the finger to passing motorists, introducing adolescent football players to maiming tactics and public transit, suggesting that cyclists killed in traffic were asking for it, and otherwise making it perfectly clear to all that he is no renaissance man – or even a renaissance mouse!.

A recent article in Toronto Life alluded to any number of reasons why our Robbie does not generally play well with others. There are references to a powerful mother, a father at once too generous and too demanding, an older bigger brighter sib (o.k., not bigger!), a mother-in-law who makes all the stereotypes too true, a failed football career, and a mound of other baggage designed to make one both little and aware of one’s own littlehood. And so perhaps it is to compensate, to appear to be as large as he wishes he were, that he turns – as so many have before him – to the public stage, or in his case, the political arena. Which forum is chosen matters not at all; the essence of both is performance. And Robbie performs.

Sadly, he achieves mostly faint sound and feeble fury. As he struts and frets, as he smoulders and gesticulates, as he stabs his finger at invisible enemies and thrusts his belly forth in an awesome display of … well … belly, he achieves only noise and in a very limited way, spectacle. It’s as if a gladiator arrived at the forum without his sword or a lion without its teeth. In his mouth, language is badly served, and his mix of fatuous argument and flatulent style will no doubt give birth to whole new synonyms for fart. Yet he will persist. He will flail and fail. He will run after his name and his dream of greatness. For once the “Chain of Office” is well-named.

Does it appear as if I pity Wee Robbie? It would be easy to do so. I recall seeing him on his feet at Toronto City Council, spreading his arms as he made an entirely forgettable point, and he did rather look like a man attending his own crucifixion.

But I don’t. One cannot pity a puppet. And whatever else Robbie may be, as gross and gargantuan and ghastly as he is, he is not his own man. He is servant to a larger master. As soon as he entered the public consciousness as something potentially more than a crackpot voice from the wasteland, he was seized – caught – captured. He was taken by … The Other.

Some of us will now spend a brief moment or two exploring the existential concept of “The Other”. The rest need feel no guilt whatsoever if they choose to explore either naps or chocolate.

The normal example used to explain “The Other” requires you to imagine yourself as a peeping Tom, or, in the politically correct 21rst Century, a peeping Mary. As you kneel at your peephole, staring at whatever or  whoever busily doing whatever, imagine that you hear the floor creak behind you. Dying inwardly, you stumble to your feet while desperately fumbling with any loose ends. Shame thrusts itself upon you. You turn to face the judgmental gaze of … The Other.

In that moment, you have been captured, judged, labelled and defined. You will now be forced to rebel against that judgment, thereby being weirdly controlled by it or you will take the easier road, yielding to it and playing out the part it assigns. Wee Robby took the second path.

Yes, Dear Reader, I hear you.  Who, you ask, is Robby’s Other? Sadly, it is us, or rather, some of us, or rather, many of us, or rather, most of Etobicoke, Scarborough, York, North York and large chucks of Toronto. We are Wee Robby’s Other. We pull the strings to make him dance.

Have you ever trained a puppy? Puppy does his good boy dance and we lean forward, praising and offering a cookie. Puppy does a different dance and out comes the rolled up newspaper. (Be advised that this is a metaphor and that this technique does not work well on real puppies. It will, however, work superbly with Tim Hudak.)

Consider Wee Robbie in this light. He mutters about liberal downtown effete elites who screw the working stiff and tens of thousands of self defined stiffs lean forward offering cookies. He argues that subways belong to Scarborough by right and act of God and only Fat Cats and Pinkos would deny them their due. Scarborough chucks him under his little chins and offers even more cookies. He slams the lefty conspiracy (gays, cyclists, environmentalists, light rail lovers, men who don’t spit) that unfairly has more than you do since they have tickets on the gravy train and cookies avalanche in from everywhere. In short, he embodies the oldest commandment of all: Hate Thy Neighbour.

What we call Ford Nation is largely a Nation of Haters. They seethe inwardly, attributing the loss of their dreams to all around them. Everyone else is “in it for themselves”, a “rip-off artist”, “selfish”, a “cheat”, “not a real man” or  “a bitch”. Only they are patriotic hard-working Joes blessed with a little common sense. (And if they cheat a little on their taxes, so what. It’s their “hard-earned” money and “everybody else does it” eh?)

Wee Robbie simply says out loud what they may only whisper. And if he someday chooses not to speak the words they dare not, they will abandon him to his former littlehood. In fact, in the same way that Don Cherry’s jackets will need to get louder, so will wee Robbie.

Shouldn’t we then pity Ford? But why? Look at the man! If anyone were ever over-cookied, it is he! He will waddle on. Wrapped in self-love and swollen with the bile of others, he will avoid self knowledge unless some inconvenient law finally swats him down. Even if that does happen, he will seize on Noble Victimhood and charge thousands to deliver after-dinner speeches. Wee Robbie shall have cookies wherever he goes.

No, save your pity for Ford Nation. They rally around him as they have around others like him and they will continue to do so, worshipping in him their own unspeakable image.

And no one ever gives them cookies.